Taking Fire. Lindsay McKenna

into the bowl. There was so much dirt in the water, he must have looked like Godzilla to her when she found him.

      “Five years.” Khat pointed to the left side of his face. “There’s a lot of dried blood and dirt on your left temple.”

      “Hurts too damn much to touch it,” he muttered.

      Khat went and got a third bowl of water. She knelt down near his left side. “May I try? The blood will draw flies tomorrow morning. They’ll eat you alive.”

      That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Mike nodded, holding her gaze. “You have a gentle touch.” He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. God help him, but he wanted her to touch him. He didn’t care where or how, he just wanted those long, cool fingers on his flesh.

      Khat lowered her lashes as he gave her an intent, burning stare. It was a look a man gave a woman. A man who wanted his woman in his bed. She felt heat sweeping up her neck and into her face. His eyes were closed, and she inhaled a ragged breath, moving closer, her knee grazing his hip. Placing her right hand against the other side of his face, the soft prickle of beard making her fingers tingle, she used a very wet cloth and gently placed it against the area of dried blood. In time, the dried blood would soften.

      Her heart was waffling in her chest, and Khat felt unexpected emotions leaping through her. His face was hard, weathered and tough looking. He beckoned to her, man to woman.

      Trying to still her reactions, she carefully worked the blood loose, cleaned off his temple and the left side of his hard jaw. He reminded her of a snow leopard at rest but still possessing that coiled tension and power within him.

      Khat closed her eyes. Fear skittered through her. She knew the power of men only too well. But for whatever miraculous reason, she was not afraid of Michael Tarik. She saw his nostrils flare, as if drinking in her scent. His mouth... Her gaze fell to that strong, chiseled mouth of his. Something unbidden, bright and clean exploded through her lower body. It took her by surprise. For whatever crazy reason, Khat felt desired by this SEAL.

      Shaking her head, she released his face and quickly washed the bloody washcloth in the bowl.

      “You have the touch of an angel,” Mike murmured, barely opening his eyes. He saw the ruddiness in Khat’s cheeks, her lashes lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. Her lips were pursed, too. As if...as if she hadn’t wanted to touch him?

      “You’re Middle Eastern, aren’t you?” he asked, keeping his voice purposely low and nonthreatening. He saw Khat’s head snap up, her eyes widen for a moment, and then Mike saw terror in them. Why?

      Khat rose, carrying the bowl to the pool, refusing to answer his question.

      Mike rubbed his damp beard. Yeah, she was. Only question was: Which country? Was she a CIA operative? They were actively and aggressively courting Middle Eastern people into their ranks.

      Something told Mike her reactions were typical for a woman from the Middle East. They were brought up chastely, surrounded by family, protected from men, virgin until they were given away in marriage. Even her English had a lilt to it. He had Saudi blood, and it was easy to pick up another Middle Eastern accent. And when he’d told her he liked her touch, she’d blushed. Was she not used to being around men? But then Mike scowled, remembering the scars on her back and shoulders. Okay, something else was falling into place. What if she was a CIA operative? Got caught by the Taliban? Tortured? Probably raped. That would explain her sudden shyness around him. She might see all men as a natural threat to her.

      Mike watched Khat return. She walked as silently as a SEAL. No one heard them coming, either. The look on her face was closed, and he saw chagrin in her eyes, maybe. He didn’t know Khat well enough to be sure. God knew he was starving to death to get to know her. He owed her something for saving him, didn’t he?

       CHAPTER THREE

      WHILE KHAT MADE tea for them, something she loved doing every night before she slept, she felt the SEAL’s eyes on her. She had a small copper kettle on a grate and used an old-fashioned magnesium tab to create the intense heat to make the water boil. There was the chemical equivalent in her MREs, but she preferred this way.

      After setting it up, she moved out of her crouch, turned and went to find a rubber band. Her hair was thick and long. And it often got in the way, which was why she tamed it into a ponytail or a single, long braid down her back.

      Out of the corner of her eye, as she did so, Khat saw a vulnerable expression fleetingly cross Mike’s face. A wistful sort of look, and then it was gone, replaced by his game face once more. It made her feel things she’d never felt before. Bewildered by all these new emotions, Khat brought two chipped mugs from another hole and placed them on a nearby tray.

      “Do you like sugar with your tea?” she asked, barely turning in his direction.

      “SEALs can use all the sugar energy they can get,” he answered wryly, half smiling. Mike liked the way shorter, softer strands had stolen out of her ponytail, caressing the sides of her face, emphasizing those breath-stealing green eyes.

      “Ah,” she said, nodding.

      “How do you take your tea?” He watched her work on the drinks, her fine, long fingers mesmerizing him. Mike wondered if she’d ever taken dance lessons because that is what she reminded him of—a ballerina.

      “Plain.”

      And then Khat joked, “Like me.”

      Scowling, he said nothing. “Why did you warn my team there was a Taliban ambush set for us?”

      Pushing a tendril of hair away from her face, Khat looked up. His eyes were hooded, his face contemplative. He was trying to figure her out. “Because it’s my job.”

      “Do you always shadow SEAL patrols?”

      Shrugging, Khat said, “Luck of the draw.” She loved teatime, having grown up with it. Taking some of her favorite cookies, shortbread, that her mother had sent to her, she pulled some out of a tin box from another hole in the wall.

      Mike shouldn’t enjoy watching her so much, but he did. “How tall are you?”

      “Too tall for a woman,” she answered. Bringing over a tray, she set it next to him.

      “Six foot?”

      “Close.”

      “How the hell were you able to get me out of wherever you found me?”

      Khat gave him a serious look. “Very carefully. I rode my mare into the wadi and retrieved you.” She watched the steam starting to rise out of the spout. Placing a tea bag in each cup, she removed the teakettle and poured the boiling-hot water into the awaiting cups. As she did, she told him how she got him from the wadi to the cave.

      Mike shook his head in disbelief, turning and giving the black mare, who had eaten and was now resting, an appreciative look. Her head was drooped and one rear leg cocked, resting on the other three, eyes closed. “Unbelievable.” And he gazed at Khat as she walked toward him with the two cups in her hands.

      Kneeling, she set them on the rusty tray, gave him three cookies and three for herself. She nudged the open jar of sugar with a spoon in it toward his good hand. Settling down, crossing her legs, she faced Mike. He did everything with focus. Adding a teaspoon of white sugar to his cup, he stirred it and set the spoon on the tin tray.

      Khat held the cup with both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea. It always made her smile. It reminded her of happier times when she was young and at home with her family, until she joined the Marine Corps. Her father strongly disapproved of her choice. Her mother remained loyal to her, however, and sent her these tasty shortbread cookies every few months. She worried constantly about her.

      “Is this something you do every night?” Mike asked, picking up the cup. He saw her eyes half close, a look of satisfaction on her face as she sniffed her steaming tea.